


Thoughts that Matter

by avari20



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Stream of Consciousness, Writing Exercise, filling in the gaps in the movie, getting into Illya's head, what's happening as it all plays out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avari20/pseuds/avari20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya's thoughts throughout the movie, getting into his motivations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts that Matter

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a writing exercise to get into Illya's head. People seemed to enjoy what I'd written, so I resolved to put the pieces together. You can't call this a straight up fic, but it's a fun way to see what our Russian bear is thinking. Let me know what you think of it!

When Illya encounters Napoleon in the bathroom again, it’s been 12 hours max since Solo made it over the wall...with the Teller girl...and leaving Illya in a minefield.

It took a lot of effort to get out of that field. Hours of not moving, of waiting for someone to find a way of getting to the wall closer to West than East Berlin, and then working out a solution that won’t end up with Illya in a thousand pieces.

Assuming his superior tried to rescue him right away. He’d failed, after all.

The KGB’s best was bested…by an American. Then Illya is told he has to work with him.

When Illya sees Gaby Teller again, he sees a woman who abandoned her country. She shirked her duty, leaped into the arms of an American to enter a life of decadence and dizzying waste. It’s disgusting, but he will be courteous. This is a job. They need the asset to cooperate. He will put aside his own distaste.

The American may have gotten lucky enough to slip through Illya’s fingers the first time, but he knows nothing but his own culture. Certainly nothing about Eastern Europe or their customs. The idea that he could dress the Teller woman is laughable.

The Teller woman is challenging him. She thinks he is not up to the task. He will show her and she will, as they say, eat her words.

If the American encroaches on his territory even one more time–

He does not want to talk. He does not want to drink. He wants to think, quietly, and this is not happening. If it does not happen soon, he will–no. No. He will not. This is a job. One that must be finished as soon as possible.

Already the woman is indulging in decadence. Drinking, Western music…and dancing, if one may call it that. It is more like dying chicken. Ridicu–

Pain, too like the pain of earlier. Do not test him, little girl.

She seems to have received the message. She is drunk, he will forgive this once. This dying chicken dance is getting worse–

 _Slap_. She has the _temerity_. Drunk or not, he will not stand by and let a little defector get away with this nonsense–why is she–дерьмо! The little girl has rushed him. Fine, he will show her just how it is really done. Must not hurt, no, she is asset, but he will–

She is stronger than she looks. That will not–oh, that was actually good move–no, no, he will not admire this. She is not Russian. She is not loyal. She is–

Getting closer, with a pretty flush on her cheeks. She is breathing hard (of course) and now would be good time to lift her away…in a moment…

A breath in his ear.

An exhale from him. That was not good. Not good at all. He would have let her kiss him. This disloyal woman. This shakes him.

He must get her away. But where? She is clinging like boneless monkey. To leave her on the floor with the broken glass would be bad. Hard to explain those injuries if they occur. Bed. Bed is good idea.

She looks tired. He can understand.

He looks at the mess of their hotel suite, hands on his hips. He must clean this. There is much destruction from their little tussle. His lips twitch. He cannot help it.

But then something black and small catches his eyes. He bends, picks it up in his fingers.

Bug.

Stupid American.

The disloyal chop shop girl snores while he finds all bugs. This is good—she does not see him go through her suitcase. There were three bugs there alone. And a Patou. He takes great pleasure in throwing this thing out of window.

There is also a dirty brown piece of fabric in the suitcase. It does not match the rest of her clothing, of course, and that is dangerous. Suspicious.

He makes certain she does not wake while he is examining it, her hand dangling from the bed. It is the kerchief for her hair, he realizes. From the escape.

The chop shop girl is sentimental.

He tucks it back into the suitcase. His fingers tap on the edges.

His mind slows. Too long without sleep. He puts all bugs in a dish and goes to bed with his clothes on.

He cannot relax. She is here. It is not safe in this hotel. Too many exits. Too much that can go wrong.

 _She_ is _here_. Disloyal, sentimental, dying chicken dance chop shop girl—who is stronger than she looks.

His fingers tap his chest, but it is slow, steady. His mind is not turning off. She escaped over the wall. The cowboy was there to help her, yes, but she is unpredictable. If Illya sleeps and she walks away as she threatened, all will be for nothing. He must make certain that does not happen.

Difficult to hide tracker in women’s shoes.

She sighs. He looks. Sees her hand. _Ah_.

Three hours of sleep. He can do that.

The cowboy keeps early hours, but he is not dressed and Illya is.

The bugs. Does the American think that he will be ashamed? He has beaten him to the punch, as they say.

The tie is fine. The tie is…

Too green. He will find another. A better one. With better color.

He must hurry. He must set alarm. The chop shop girl will not wake otherwise, and he has things to do.

The ring is suitable. Exactly what he needs. It is only a few minutes of work to make it perfect, and he is pleased.

Ah. Sunglasses. She is feeling the affects of last night, hm? Good. That is what Western decadence is—a headache. Little Chop Shop Girl must learn this. He sings his greeting. Perhaps he is in a good mood. Perhaps he enjoys her wince just a little. Perhaps it is very small revenge for her snoring. Chop Shop Girl sounds like an engine. Perhaps it because he knows he has done well. He can afford to be a little playful.

She is still challenging him, but he does not let her. He learned something last night—direct confrontation does not work with this woman. She will charge. One must sidestep, like matador with red cape. Spin her in circles until she does not know which way is up.

Her hand is very small. He knows this already. Her fingers…tiny. Like little twigs. It is only luck that the ring fits, but he is proud all the same. When she is in the car, dressed in the dress he picked out in the West Berlin dress shop, he feels a sense of accomplishment that releases the tension from his limbs. Today will go better than yesterday.

He does not like this Uncle Rudi. Polite at first, but stays behind his sunglasses. There are things this man is hiding.

This little man is saying that Illya is inferior. This dispossessed Nazi, who works for international criminal organization creating bombs, is looking down his nose at Illya. He must not react. He must not compromise the mission. He leaves Chop Shop Girl, goes to bathroom. He needs cold water. A moment.

He finds something better.

It was good exercise. Little Italian boys with no muscle and too much self-importance, dressed in brand clothing with money they have not earned and superiority they do not deserve. He takes greater pleasure teaching them a lesson than he did in throwing out stupid Cowboy’s dress.

But they must leave soon, before someone—Alexander Vinciguerra. The pet rat of head rat. Illya does not like his little mousy mustache, or the way it twitches when he looks down at Chop Shop Girl.

What is she thinking? She must move away. Proper fiancee would never allow another man to approach her like this. He is standing too close, and she is not—he is inviting her to lunch? Illya’s nostrils flare. He has heard things about these Italians. If they were in Russia, the pet rat and his mousy mustache would be dead for his insolence. And Chop Shop Girl—no. They will move. Leave. Now.

She asks too many questions, demanding to know why they must leave. He refuses to say, all sense of accomplishment this morning gone. In the taxi he keeps his head turned toward the window, not thinking about the rat, and not looking at the ring that glints when she moves her hand on her knee.

She did not push the Italian away. Had she no pride? The man was a criminal. A married criminal. Scum. But rich, and little Uncle Rudi’s employer. A racehorse.

Westerners, he sneers to himself. But he will not let himself be pulled into this…this…miasma. He is KGB. They have work.

So he helps her out of the car and leads her to their hotel, hand splayed across her back. She is stiff and uncooperative, frustration edging her voice. He does not care. He will not care.

The ring bumps his thigh when they stand next to each other in the elevator.

Chop Shop Girl does not understand what asset does, he decides. There is protocol to follow. Story to sell. She is fiance. She should be loyal. But she is disloyal, isn’t she? A defector.

He breathes in through his nose, holds it, and exhales.

It does not matter. They are engaged. They will stay so until the end of this mission, and if Alexander Vinciguerra allows himself to believe that he is a match for a Russian, Illya will act as the parameters of the mission allow—as an engaged man defending his position in his woman’s life.

And that, he thinks with great satisfaction as the elevator door opens, he can almost look forward to.


End file.
